


Broken

by Dawn (sunrize83)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gap Filler, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawn
Summary: Fill in the blank for Folie a Deux. What happened at the hospital after Scully rescued Mulder, and how did it influence her response to Skinner's questions?





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> That cut-away in Mulder's room at the end of Folie a Deux has always bothered me because we didn't get to see any interaction between the two. I chose to see Scully's declaration of "folie a deux" in a positive light, taking a stand with Mulder. Here's what I would have liked to see happen.

Psychiatric Wing  
Calumet Mercy Hospital  
10:13 p.m. 

Though I pride myself on my scientific powers of  
observation, even I can occasionally be as thick as a post --  
my mom's expression, not mine. It honestly never occurs to  
me that something is wrong with Mulder until he nearly  
dozes off while giving his statement to the local PD. 

In my own defense, the circumstances of the past hour have  
left me shaken and distracted. First the inexplicable...  
hallucination involving the floor nurse turned walking  
corpse, and then bursting into my partner's room to the  
accompaniment of his hysterical screams. 

Let me clarify something here, Mulder does not do  
hysterical. You can criticize many things about him, and  
believe me, at one time or another I have. But staying calm  
under pressure isn't one of them. The man has faced down  
multiple serial killers and escaped from a Russian gulag.  
You see what I mean? 

When I barged into that hospital room, however, all traces of  
my calm, collected partner had vanished. His eyes, a  
foolproof indicator of his mood at any given moment, were  
nearly black and so wide with terror they looked ready to  
pop from his head. He'd broken into a panic induced sweat  
and when I later released him from the restraints I saw he'd  
actually drawn blood in his frenzied attempt to free himself. 

But who could blame the man? Even now my mind refuses  
to process what my eyes glimpsed skittering across the  
ceiling above Mulder's bed -- because it isn't possible. It  
*isn't*. Just as it isn't possible that it could be missing after  
sustaining a gunshot wound and a three story plunge from  
Mulder's window. It should be lying dead amid a puddle of  
blood and shards of broken glass. Well, the glass is there  
anyway. 

So if I have been less than observant about Mulder's  
condition you'll have to forgive me. When I first released  
him from the restraints he was trembling with fear and so  
wired he could barely sit still. His nervous pacing provided  
me with a rather interesting view until he remembered that  
hospital gowns flap in the back and parked himself on the  
edge of his bed. I used my cell to call the police, and once  
they stormed onto the scene I lost track of Mulder in the  
confused melee of forensics and rapid-fire questions. 

Now I manage to tear myself away from the officer in  
charge, a Detective Webster, and head back to where Mulder  
is still perched on the mattress, obviously fielding questions  
from another officer. 

"I'm sure Scully must have hit it, she wouldn't have missed at  
that range," he says as I approach them. "It broke through the  
window and then..." 

His gaze drifts toward the window and I'm struck by how  
slowly he is speaking. Mulder's brain normally functions like  
a Pentium processor, and his mouth isn't far behind. I watch  
as he stares blankly at the moonlight for a moment and then  
his lids gradually start to slip shut. 

"Mulder!" 

My voice sharper than normal, I dart forward, insinuating  
myself between Mulder and the cop. His eyes snap open at  
the sound of his name and he gives me a bleary smile. I  
detect the problem immediately. His pupils are so dilated  
only a thin ring of hazel is still visible at the edges. 

"Hey, Scully. You gonna spring me from this joint now?" 

I offer him the small smile I use for one of his particularly  
clever jokes or a minor injury, not the full blown, show my  
teeth grin that I reserve for returning from the dead. That  
might sound pathetic, but I'm smart enough to realize that my  
emotions regarding this man are dangerous and must be kept  
on a leash. The thing is, that leash grows longer and longer  
as the years go by. 

"Mulder, did they give you something?" I ask him in a low  
voice, not wanting to broadcast the fact to the earnest young  
rookie standing impatiently behind me. 

"Huh?" 

Okay, now I know they must have hit him with the big guns.  
Mulder is never that slow on the uptake. 

"Drugs, Mulder," I say with exaggerated patience. "Did they  
give you any drugs tonight?" 

He blinks slowly and I can almost see when the little light  
bulb over his head flicks on. His eyebrows draw together and  
he sticks out his lower lip in that classic Mulder pout. 

"Yeah. The nurse gave me something just before Pincus...  
just before you got here. She wouldn't undo the restraints.  
And she opened the window." He shudders and a mixture of  
sympathy and shame rises like acid in the back of my throat. 

I lean in closer so that my face is just inches from his and I  
can feel his warm breath on my cheek. *He's alive!* Part of  
me rejoices even as I carefully peel back one eyelid for a  
closer look. 

"She injected you?" is what I say aloud. 

Mulder nods and his eyes droop again as I step back a little.  
"Don't know what it was but it hit me fast," he mumbles,  
yawning. 

"If I had to venture a guess I'd say Thorazine -- a truckload  
of it," I tell him gently. "I'm surprised you're still functioning  
at all." I turn around to face the now-thoroughly-irritated  
officer. "Agent Mulder has been through quite an ordeal  
tonight and is feeling under the weather. I'm taking him back  
to the motel now. We'll come down to the station tomorrow  
and you can finish asking your questions." 

The kid can't be more than twenty-five, baby-faced and lacks  
the self-assurance of Detective Webster. Still, he actually  
scowls and opens his mouth to argue with me until I flash  
him what Mulder refers to as "The Look." It's a little  
expression I developed over years of living with Bill and  
Charlie and have perfected since working in the boys club  
that is the FBI. It nearly drops the rookie in his tracks and he  
grudgingly agrees to my plan, though he looks less than  
thrilled. 

When I look back Mulder's eyes are mere slits and his chin is  
beginning to tilt down toward his chest. I walk quickly over  
to the small cupboard and remove the sweats, underwear,  
and shoes that I brought for him when I visited earlier.  
Crouching down in front of him I run my knuckles firmly  
down the side of his face, placing the clothes in his lap. His  
eyes struggle a little harder to open this time and I send up a  
silent prayer that I won't wind up needing to dress him. A  
girl can only take so much after all. 

"What do you say, partner? There's a bathroom right across  
the hall. Can you get yourself dressed?" 

Ah, he isn't that far gone. Mulder manages a leer, though it's  
rather drunken. "What if I say no? You gonna help me,  
Scully?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

Playing my part, I roll my eyes, though secretly I find his  
antics adorable. "Move it, Mulder, or you just might be  
spending the night right here." 

In his drugged condition he can't hide the emotion that  
sweeps across his face at my words and I nearly bite my  
tongue in disgust at my insensitivity. Rather than apologize  
with words I take his hands and pull him gently to his feet,  
steadying him when he sways a little. He answers my  
questioning look with a small nod and makes his way  
carefully out into the hall, listing a little to the right now and  
then. This time he has the presence of mind to use his free  
hand to hold the gown shut. 

Detective Webster makes his way over to me, stopping  
briefly to give the forensics person additional instructions. 

"Officer Newton tells me you're taking Agent Mulder out of  
here," he says, obviously refraining from any further remarks  
on what Newton may have told him. "You'll stop by  
tomorrow to wrap things up?" 

It's really more of an order than a question but I nod  
agreeably. Unlike Mulder, I've learned how to play nice with  
the local boys. 

"What about the floor nurse -- the one who opened the  
window for the... intruder?" 

He shakes his head regretfully, and I wish I could say I'm  
surprised by his answer. 

"We've been over the entire building. No luck. I've put out an  
APB on her as well as on this Pincus that you mentioned. I'll  
let you know if I hear anything." 

It's not enough, but it will have to do. Right now my first  
priority is getting Mulder some sleep. As if summoned by  
my thoughts he appears in the doorway, leaning heavily  
against the jam and eyeing the room warily. I can't say I  
blame him for not wanting to step back inside. 

He's as wobbly as a newborn colt so I slip his arm around my  
shoulders and mine around his waist as we make our way  
carefully to my rental car. I settle him in the passenger seat  
and watch him fumble comically with the seatbelt for a  
moment before I lean in and fasten the buckle. He grins  
sheepishly at me and to my surprise I find myself briefly  
cupping his cheek, the stubble like sandpaper against my  
palm, and returning the smile. Flustered by my own actions,  
I straighten quickly and shut the door. 

By the time we're on the road to my motel, his eyes are shut  
and his breathing has begun to deepen. He looks so innocent,  
like a little boy worn out from a day hard at play, but I'm  
afraid once he slips under he'll be out for the count. Since I  
really don't think I can get his 170 pounds from the car to a  
bed, that just isn't an option. 

"Talk to me, Mulder," I order, reaching over to nudge his  
shoulder. "I need you to stay awake until we get to the  
motel." 

He opens glassy eyes and regards me wearily. "I'd tell you to  
quit bugging me, Scully, but that expression has recently  
taken on a whole new meaning." 

The man is incredible. He was nearly killed tonight,  
definitely scared out of his wits, and is presently stoned out  
of his mind. Yet he never backs down, facing it all with that  
amazing persistence and dry wit that leaves me in awe of the  
depth of his courage. I smirk just a little at his cleverness,  
efficiently hiding the lump in my throat. Before I can muster  
a response, he speaks again. 

"They find Nurse Zombie?" 

A vivid image of her pallid face and hollowed eyes flits  
through my thoughts and I barely repress the shiver that  
follows. "No. Detective Webster told me they've issued an  
APB on the nurse and Pincus. He'll let us know if anything  
turns up." 

Mulder's voice is so soft it's barely audible over the engine's  
hum and the steady drone of tires on pavement. "They  
won't." 

I send him a questioning look before returning my eyes to  
the road. He's silent for so long I begin to fear that he's dozed  
off, but when my eyes find his face I can see he's groggy but  
awake. Just as I pull into the motel parking lot, he speaks. 

"I'm so tired, Scully." 

The words from his lips are slow and thick as molasses,  
followed by a deep sigh that seems to originate somewhere  
around his toes. I pull into a parking spot directly in front of  
my door, absurdly grateful for the small convenience.  
Swiveling in my seat to face him, I'm totally unprepared for  
the film of tears coating his eyes, shining under the harsh  
fluorescent lighting over our heads. 

"I know you are, Mulder," I tell him gently. "Let's get you  
inside and you can sleep. You'll feel much better once the  
drug works its way out of your system." 

He surprises me a second time by slowly shaking his head.  
When he lifts his eyes to mine I catch my breath, biting hard  
on my lip to stop its trembling. With abrupt clarity I  
understand that the weariness Mulder confesses has nothing  
at all to do with the Thorazine that Nurse Zombie gave him.  
His gaze communicates an intensity of pain and sorrow that  
nearly undoes me. 

"Did you ever watch westerns, Scully?" 

Now, it is my turn to shake my head, and I can't help  
wondering if this is the drugs talking, encouraging his mind  
to slip from one topic to the next without rhyme or reason. I  
should know better. 

"Sam and I used to watch them a lot when I was a kid. We  
especially liked when the cowboys had to break a wild horse  
because it was so exciting. Do you know how they did it?" 

Mystified, I shrug. 

"Here was this wild, untamed stallion that refused to be  
ridden. The cowboy would get on its back and the stallion  
would fight him, bucking and kicking with everything it had  
until it managed to throw the cowboy off. But the cowboy  
wouldn't let that stop him. He'd just turn around and climb  
right back up into the saddle and stay there until the stallion  
somehow threw him off again. And that's how it continued,  
the stallion repeatedly tossing the cowboy from its back only  
to have the cycle repeated over and over. Sometimes two  
cowboys would even work together, one taking over if the  
other got too tired or injured. Eventually, the stallion just  
gave up. It came to see that resisting was futile, that no  
matter how many times it would appear to defeat the  
cowboy, the cowboy always came back. When the stallion  
was finally too tired to keep fighting it would submit and  
allow the cowboy to ride. Its spirit was broken." 

My eyes burn. "Mulder..." 

"I'm like that horse, Scully," he presses on, ignoring me. "I'm  
tired of fighting. Tired of being 'Monster Boy,' of people  
more willing to lock me away in the nuthouse than believe  
that I just might be right, of battling one enemy only to be  
told that I've been duped by another. And any time I manage  
to throw one off, another just climbs back on. I don't think I  
can do it anymore." 

My throat is so tight and clogged with tears that it's several  
minutes before I can speak. As I do, I reach over to tangle  
my fingers with his. 

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I know I let you down when I didn't  
believe you and I understand if you're hurt and angry. But  
trust me when I say that you are *not* that horse. You're the  
cowboy. And someday I'm certain *you* will break  
*them*." I pause, waiting until his eyes seek out mine. "And  
if you get too tired, or hurt, then I'll take over for a while  
until you're ready to go on. Because no matter what you  
might think, this is my fight too." 

His eyes drop to our linked hands and the corners of his  
mouth turn up just a little. "You're crazier than I am, Scully." 

"Maybe I am," I reply, smiling a little myself as something  
heavy lifts from my heart. "Folie a Deux, Mulder. A madness  
shared by two." 

He's nearly sleepwalking when I steer him into the motel  
room, dozing while I bandage his wrists, and by the time his  
head hits the pillow he's out cold. I sit in the uncomfortable  
chair and watch him sleep, appreciating the opportunity to  
see his face relaxed and at peace. For now he can forget the  
battle. God knows, it will still be there when he wakes up. 

I'm not looking forward to tomorrow. It's one thing to  
confess what I saw to Mulder and another to admit it to  
Skinner. But I meant what I said when I told Mulder that I  
intend to share his fight. And really, I wouldn't have it any  
other way. 


End file.
